Chapter Thirty-Six

Peter had only taken a few steps towards the double doors when his phone buzzed, indicating that he'd received a text message. He could think of only one person who'd send one. He took the phone out of his pocket; he'd gotten a message from Agent Littleton.

Call me when you can.

Not sure of the cell phone rules inside the ICU, Peter went ahead and placed the requested call to the Cyber Crimes Agent.

"Agent Burke," Littleton said when he answered. "How's your CI?"

"Doctors say he should make a full recovery," Peter told him, "but right now, he's still a little worse for the wear. How's things going on your end?"

"Eden and Maxwell invoked and aren't saying anything, but McAllister is willing to cooperate if we offer him a deal," Littleton informed him. "As a sign of good faith, he gave us the address of a warehouse in Queen where they worked from. He said he was only there Saturday night and early Sunday morning, draining Bradford & Donnelly accounts. But there was a problem," he went on to say, "and his access was cut off. Eden sent him to Sloatsburg. He told him he had some loose ends to tie up and that he'd join him later."

"Find anything useful at the warehouse?" Peter knew the agent would have sent a team to check it out.

"We found the jacket and blue tie Caffrey was wearing in the security footage, a bloody t-shirt, and some other blood evidence." Since Andrew Carver hadn't been hurt, Peter knew the blood belonged to Neal. "Samples have been sent to the lab. With Caffrey and the Carver kid as witnesses, the kidnapping case is a slam dunk," Littleton continued. "And with McAllister's testimony, we'll get him for the robbery as well."

"Did McAllister give up the name of the other man?" Peter asked, "The second kidnapper?"

The anonymous tipster, or as Andrew Carver had described him, the nicer one.

"No," the agent answered. "He said he only dealt with Terrence Eden and didn't know the other men by name."

"Agent Jones said the Carvers were coming in tomorrow to make their formal statements," Peter said. "Have the boy sit down with a sketch artist; maybe we can match it to someone. Maxwell worked at the Danford Building; maybe the other man did, too."

"That's a good idea," Agent Littleton said. "I'll get a list of employees and their photo ids. I'll need a statement from Caffrey, too. When do you think he'll be able to give me one?"

"I'm not sure," Peter stated honestly. "They've just started him on morphine and moved him into the ICU. I don't know when he'll be up to talking or how long they'll keep him there."

"Just let me know when he's up to it," Agent Littleton requested. "I'll bring the video camera and get his statement. Have you left the hospital yet?"

"No, I'm going to stay tonight," Peter answered. "He's still got ketamine in his system, and until that's over, I want to stay close."

"I understand," Agent Littleton said. "Anything you need from me?"

"Well," Peter said. "There is one thing. I could use some reading material. Any way you could get me a copy of that file you brought from Chicago?"

"The one relating to the trafficking case?" Agent Littleton sounded mildly surprised by his request.

"Yes," Peter said. "I'd like a chance to read over it if you don't mind."

"Might be a good idea that you be familiar with it," he said. "That case agent is flying in on Tuesday to talk to Caffrey." Peter knew that was coming; he was glad it was still two days out. "I'll fax them to the Suffern Police Department right now and have an officer bring them to you."

"Thanks," Peter replied. "I appreciate it. And I'll give you a call tomorrow after I talk to the doctor, about a good time to get that interview done."

"Thank you, Agent Burke," the agent replied. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

The call was disconnected and Peter proceeded to the entrance to the ICU, pressing the buzzer on the wall outside the double doors.

He recognized Janet's voice. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to see Neal Caffrey," He answered. "KJ-422?"

The automatic doors opened, and Peter stepped through. Janet's expression told him she remembered him, as did her greeting. "Agent Burke. Mr. Caffrey's room is just around to your left."

"Thanks." He made his way around the circular path until he found room 422.

As he had been told, Neal was sleeping peacefully; in fact, the expression on his face was almost placid. A nurse was with him, and she looked up when Peter entered.

"You would be Agent Burke?" She inquired. Apparently, his reputation preceded him.

"Yes," Peter replied, joining her at Neal's bedside. "How's he doing?" He doubted there had been any changes in the past half hour or so, but it was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

"His temperature is a little elevated," she informed him, "but there is always an increased risk of infection with spleen injuries. The antibiotics should take care of it, but we'll monitor him closely for the next twelve hours to make sure."

Neal had always looked younger than his age, and Peter wasn't sure if it was the bed that seemed to swallow his small frame, the face devoid of tumult or just his own new perspective, but Neal looked younger now than he ever had before.

"I'd like to stay with him tonight, if I can," Peter said, glancing around the room. Elizabeth was correct; he spotted a dark green recliner. "Just in case he wakes up confused about where he is and what's going on.'

"We're aware there are special circumstances in Mr. Caffrey's case; Dr. Duvall has already cleared for you to stay." She pressed a combination of keys on the IV stand, and satisfied turned to Peter. "The cafeteria is open until seven, Agent Burke," she told him. "If you haven't had dinner, you should go get something."

"I had a late lunch."

"I understand, but it's a long time until morning," she said, stepping past him. "He's resting well right now; if I were you, I'd take advantage of it."

She left with those parting words, and Peter pulled the cushioned chair from against the wall closer to the bed and sat down. Neal was resting well, and Peter hoped that trend would continue throughout the evening and night. Even though he wasn't hungry, he was debating going on the hunt for a magazine, but knowing that reading material was on the way, he settled down and tried to wait patiently.

The machines hummed. Nurses moved to and fro outside Neal's room. Phones rang. Neal slept.

It was only fifteen minutes before a uniformed officer tapped on the glass outside Neal's open door.

"Agent Burke?" He held a manila envelope in his hand.

"That was fast," Peter commented, getting to his feet. "I'm Agent Burke."

The officer stepped into the room and handed the file to Peter. "We were told it was urgent."

"Thank you for getting it to me so quickly." Peter unwound the cord that held the envelope closed.

"Not a problem, sir," the officer replied. "Always glad to help the FBI."

With a curious glance at Neal, the officer left, and Peter pulled the papers from the envelope. On the top of the stack was a copy of the photo Agent Littleton had shown him only this morning; the photo of the boy who'd dropped the letter with the Chicago Police Department over a decade earlier. A boy who had been Danny but had became Neal.

He looked up from the photo to Neal, who's chest rose and fell gently, a look of tranquility on his bruised face.

As much as Peter had wanted to know about Neal's past, now that it seemed he finally would have answers he found no joy in it. Instead, he only felt a sense of dread at what digging up the past would do to the young man who'd tried so hard to bury it.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The file Agent Littleton had sent over via the Suffern Police Department contained documents, reports and interview notes; the initial one's initiated by the Chicago Detective who had received the letter, and subsequent ones by the Violent Crimes Division, Chicago Federal Bureau of Investigations who had taken over the case. The first document, directly behind the photo of Neal, detailed how the alleged crime had been brought to the detective's attention. The report had all the standard check boxes filled out, with a typewritten narrative at the bottom.

The Detective described the young man who'd left the letter as approximately fourteen to sixteen years of age, blue eyes, brown hair, wearing blue jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and sneakers. He also noted that there were numerous contusions and substantial bruising on his face, and that his movements had seemed pained. The desk clerk, and the Detective as well, had thought the subject had come to report some kind of physical abuse. The Detective went on to recount his brief interaction with the boy, how he'd asked for a glass of water and had disappeared before the Detective had returned. The Detective then noticed that a letter had been left on his desk. After reading it, he had immediately left, hoping to catch the young man on the street, but his efforts to locate him had been futile. Not only then, but in the days that followed.

Peter looked up at Neal. If the Detective was correct, then Neal was at least two years younger than his birth certificate indicated, possibly even four. He'd always suspected that Neal Caffrey wasn't his real name, but he hadn't really questioned his age until he'd seen the photo. But if the young Danny had changed his name, he could have just as easily changed his age as well.

The letter had provided enough information to launch an inquiry, and with further investigation into the named properties, a case against the building's owner began to take shape. The investigation against Douchant took off but, try as they might, the case against Terrence Eden never got any traction. Every time there seemed to be a lead to follow, something to tie him to Douchant or his illegal activities, it resulted in a dead end. The only person who seemed willing to say anything against Terrence Eden was his former forger, and no one could even find a name, much less produce the man himself. The boy who'd left the letter was the only lead to him, and he too remained nameless and unattainable. Peter could almost feel the frustration of the investigators radiating off the pages.

There was little information about the boy other than what the Detective had provided, but there were some comments about the mysterious forger. Having acquired some of the documents the man had admitted to creating, the FBI had put together a general profile in an effort to identify him.

The documents are of exceptional quality, meticulously produced down to the smallest detail. The subject is very knowledgeable in material use and design selection and utilizes a variety of skills including artistic reproduction and signature duplication. Since no identifying mark has been found on any document he has produced, he likely engages in this activity purely for financial gain. The subject is intelligent, well educated, and may work in a field where he has access to or processes a variety of legal documents.

The letter written to authorities indicates he has empathy for those he perceives as helpless and feels a moral obligation to protect them. He may identify with their plight due to his own experiences or of that of someone close to him. He is likely a law abiding citizen in all other aspects of his life and viewed positively by peers and co-workers. His level of expertise indicates years of experience in document reproduction. His estimated age is between forty and fifty years.

With those as the parameters, no wonder they'd never found Eden's forger or considered that the person who'd delivered the letter had actually written it. After all, they were looking for a middle-aged clerical worker, and as Agent Littleton had observed, the person who left the letter was just a kid.

Peter wondered if Agent Littleton had revealed that Neal was the forger, or if the agent flying in on Tuesday still thought he was just the delivery boy. He supposed he'd find out the answer to that soon enough.

Again, the thought of how Neal was going to respond to being forced to face his past was concerning. Right now, he was resting, unaware of what lay ahead, but that blissful state would not last long. By tomorrow, Agent Littleton would arrive to get a statement about Neal's recent dealings with Terrence Eden, and the following day, another Federal Agent would be asking about his not-so-recent dealings with the man.

But the meetings would not be antagonistic in nature, Peter told himself. Neal wasn't in any trouble, in fact, both Agents were looking to him to make their cases. He had been a minor when he worked for Eden in Chicago and writing the letter and leaving it with the police had been a brave thing to do. The information had brought down a human trafficking operation, saved a half dozen children and any number of other victims. Francis Douchant was serving a life sentence, and with Neal's cooperation, Terrence Eden would share the same fate. As difficult as facing his past might be, being a part of bringing Eden to justice, of seeing the man held accountable for his crimes, might give Neal the closure he needed to come to terms with it and put it behind him for good.

But in spite of his attempt to put a positive spin on the upcoming interviews, Peter still felt a sense of unease. Neal could have used what he had on Eden to cut a deal when he'd been arrested, but he hadn't. He could have used it as a bargaining chip when he'd been sentenced to four years in a maximum security prison but he hadn't opened his mouth. He could have tried to use it as leverage to get the FBI to help him find Kate, but he hadn't done that either.

Neal had never cashed in that chip because he didn't want to answer the questions doing so would raise. He hadn't wanted to answer them then and he wouldn't want to answer them now. But any hint of an unwillingness to cooperate could quickly change the tone of the meetings from interview to interrogation. Neal was a federal prisoner on work release and that status could be revoked at any time. The FBI would not hesitate to play that trump card if it became necessary. Neal needed to be aware of that and he needed to behave accordingly.

Feeling tension building in his neck and between his shoulders, Peter stood up and, linking the fingers of his hands together, stretched his arms above his head. He needed to move around a bit, clear his head and get something to drink.

And he needed to call Elizabeth. He knew just hearing her voice would make him feel better.